


The Exhausted Heart

by baranduin



Series: Courtyard of the White Tree [9]
Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-14
Updated: 2010-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-06 07:12:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baranduin/pseuds/baranduin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A follow-on story to Courtyard of the White Tree, set in the same AU universe. Umbar fic, Sea-longing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Exhausted Heart

_Then he struggled with his heart  
His innocence all pieced apart  
Then he wrestled with his mind  
And his proud heart he left behind ...  
("Spirit" by Mike Scott, version on "The Live Adventures of the Waterboys", second line not quite right)_

* * *

 

"Nasty day," said Faramir.

"Maybe," said Frodo, twiddling with his breakfast roll before giving Faramir a brilliant smile that did not reach his eyes. "I think I might do a little painting."

Faramir bit his lip and said nothing.

It was going to happen again.

The signs could be subtle, sometimes no more than a vague restlessness betrayed by fidgeting fingers, but Faramir was nothing if not well-trained in identifying that it was going to start. Frodo usually tried to hide it, though Faramir could never decide whether it was done out of Frodo's desire to protect him or out of a cunning that always eventually guided the hobbit's words and actions during these times.

The end result was always the same if variable in duration and intensity.

They suffered.

The less physically-oriented spells somehow were more grievous to Faramir. He supposed that was because when Frodo suffered a bodily ailment, then he could do something about it. He could take direct action, even if it was only holding Frodo in his arms for hours on end and giving him the warmth of his own body.

Faramir did not know the shape it would eventually take, but its beginning did not bode well.

For he was shut out of Frodo's heart.

* * *

Frodo stared out to sea and shivered, not that he felt either warm or cold at this point. He'd been sitting on the balcony peering for so long through the mist for glimpses of the setting sun that he could barely feel the soles of his feet or his bottom. When he moved his feet, shuffling them just to get a little circulation going, they felt like great clumsy blocks of wood.

It had been a strange day, and no mistake about that. Take the weather for a start and that would be enough to go on. It had been neither fair nor foul, instead being a mixture of both that made it impossible to settle down with any kind of a proper outlook or plan. In the morning, Frodo had woken and looked out the bedroom window to find the familiar sea of mist that often cushioned Sea Dream. A pale yellow sun told him that the mist would not last long, so after breakfast and seeing Faramir off on business of his own, he had gone out on the balcony to set up his easel.

Well, he'd been wrong about the sun burning off the haze. It hadn't, instead shilly-shallying around so that a patch of sea or sky would blaze out bright blue for a few minutes only to be covered up again by the gray fog. Frodo had thought that perhaps he might try an exercise in painting the mist as he hadn't done that before. It would be good practice in distinguishing between shades of gray and silver. But every time he began to mix the right tints on his palette, the mist would thin until only soft white wisps remained.

By the time lunch rolled around, Frodo gave up and put away his easel and paints in favor of an extended meal. Of course that's when the fog returned in earnest.

And that is how it had stayed. After lunch, Frodo went back onto the balcony though without any intention of resuming his painting. The air was chill so he wrapped his cloak around him before stepping up on the stone seat that ran perpendicular to the balcony's parapet. Once there, he sat on the broad stone with his knees drawn up to his chin and his hood pulled down low over his forehead. Soon the wool grew damp and the occasional water drop fell onto his nose though he ignored it. He barely felt it for all his attention was on the Sea this dank afternoon.

He could not see it, but he could hear it and smell it.

Oh, it was strong to his senses, so strong he could almost have stepped off the balcony and walked its briny path with firm footfalls until he reached the beach so many long feet below him.

"I wonder," he said aloud and started. Except for the rush of the surf far below, there had been no sound and even the waves had seemed muffled today. His voice was so loud and sharp to his ears. Did it always sound so?

Frodo sat and listened for a minute, measuring his heart beats to the faithful surf. But his conjecture would not quiet within him, and he spoke again though this time he lowered his voice so that it matched the hush of the sea.

"I wonder what they look like, the Elven ships," he said.

"What?"

The rough stone grazed Frodo's knuckles as his hands clenched into fists. He had not heard Faramir arrive. He twisted his mouth into some semblance of a smile and turned round.

"Hullo! Home so soon?" Oh, dear. Given that it was almost dark, not the most intelligent of responses, especially combined with the forced cheerfulness of his words.

Faramir sighed. "How long have you been sitting out here by yourself? Are you ..." His voice trailed off, and Frodo was grateful that Faramir had not completed his thought. He was in no mind to be questioned as to his wellbeing just because he chose to sit outside in damp weather.

He was also not in the mood to dissemble and wanted only to be left alone to ponder this most intriguing question of exactly what the Elven ships that set sail from Middle-earth to the Undying Lands looked like. It was an urgent point that needed solitude and quiet so that he could wrack his mind for any shred of information Bilbo might have passed on to him—or for that matter, that he might have learned while in Rivendell. Drat. Why hadn't he spent more time in Elrond's library?

First he was going to have to get rid of Faramir.

Frodo smiled though it felt more like he was baring his teeth like a cornered stray dog. "It's a good day to sit outside and think," he said, hoping without much optimism that the answer might satisfy Faramir.

It did not, though Frodo was pleased that it did throw the man off the scent a bit. "Yes," Faramir said, drawing out the word so that it seemed an entire speech of disapproval. "But a bit cold and damp, don't you think? Surely your thoughts might emerge more ... er ... easily sitting by the fire."

_Not these thoughts._

"Oh, I like it here, but go inside yourself. Yes, do that and get warm. I'm fine here but I'll be in soon. I'm almost done anyway. Make a pot of tea?"

That made the man narrow his eyes.

_Frodo, you babble too much._

Instead of following Frodo's instructions to go inside, not that Frodo really expected that he would do that, Faramir sidled closer. His face was impassive as he stretched out his hand and took the edge of Frodo's hood between his thumb and forefinger before giving it a little squeeze.

_He's always watching you. Doesn't trust you on your own, does he? Treats you like you're not even in your tweens._

"I'll bring you a dry cloak first."

That comment shouldn't have annoyed Frodo, but it did. He turned away from Faramir and listened to the man's receding footsteps and the snick of the closing terrace door. Well, he'd be back. He always was.

Oh, it was dark now, with the few shreds of mist left in the air shining around him as the stars came out. The perfect time to ponder that most urgent of questions which had occurred to him earlier.

"What was it?"

Right. The ships.

There was a haven in the south. Someone had told him that; had it been Legolas? But did ships set sail from the south any longer? Perhaps Faramir would know. Yes, he would ask Faramir. And even if the man did not know, he would know how to find out. And he would do it; he would do it for Frodo.

When Faramir returned, Frodo allowed him to slip off his sodden cloak and replace it with a dry one. Frodo drew it around himself with a happy sigh. Ah, he loved Faramir's heavy cloak. Its fabric was thickly woven and it was lined with soft fur—very like to the one Boromir had worn. There was rarely any need to use it in Umbar's mild weather, but tonight was perfect for its protection.

"Thank you," Frodo said without turning around to face the man. Oddly enough, he felt a little leery of looking at Faramir at this moment though the question in his mind needed an answer. Now. He needed to know now.

"I'll make that pot of tea," Faramir said.

"No!" Frodo said though still without turning round.

Ah. The man mistook the urgency in Frodo's voice for desire and came closer, wrapping his arms around Frodo. "You're right. It is nice out here."

Though it was difficult, Frodo managed not to laugh for he knew too well that only someone with a strange desire would stay outside in such soggy weather when warmth and light beckoned from inside.

_He loves you._

But Frodo had no time for that at the moment, not with this thing pressing in on him, this need to understand and know and ... see. He needed to see them with his own eyes, needed to assure himself somehow that they existed _now_ in carved timbers and sails of canvas rather than in some old song that had faded into tattered shreds of memory.

Frodo leaned back against Faramir's chest.

_He's so nice._

"Faramir?"

"Mm hmm?" Faramir's breath was warm against Frodo's ear. So alive and _here_.

Though he intended to speak quietly, Frodo's words came out in an eager rush. "Tell me of the Elvish havens in Gondor."

Faramir's body stiffened and the quick breath he drew hissed. After a long moment during which the only sound in their ears was the rumble of the surf and the thumping of their own beating hearts, Faramir breathed out in a long sigh that steamed past Frodo's face in a thin stream of warmth. He spoke quietly, "So that's what you've been pondering out here. You could have told me before, you know."

_Oh, he's angry._

"Not for long. I've only just now thought of it and wondered ..." Even to Frodo's ears, that sounded dismal and inadequate.

"Please, Frodo. I'm not some dullard though you treat me as one."

"I know. Tell me what you know."

It surprised Frodo when Faramir drew him closer, but he said nothing and after a moment Faramir spoke. Or rather, he recited what surely had been a lesson from his childhood.

"After Thangorodrim was broken and Morgoth defeated, a remnant of Sindarin Elves from Doriath came south to Gondor ... though I do not recall whether it was called that at the time. They established a dwelling at the mouth of the Morthond, just south of where the Ringlo joins it. It is said that they built many ships there that over the years sailed over the Sea and never returned."

"Have you been there?"

A light rain began to fall, but neither of them moved.

"Yes," Faramir answered, drawing the hood of Frodo's cloak up over the hobbit's head.

"Tell me!"

"I had been visiting my mother's kin in Dol Amroth when I was in my teens. We rode north along the river's broad shore until we reached it, though at first I did not know what we had reached."

Faramir's voice grew softer the longer he spoke, and Frodo tilted his head to better catch his words.

_How sad he sounds. Perhaps the sight was grievous to him._

"Why is that? Was there little evidence of the Elves' presence?" Frodo asked when Faramir continued to stay silent.

The man laughed with a brief burst. "No, the evidence was clear. The gracefulness of their dwellings is difficult to mistake. No. I was just remembering how beautiful it was and how very strange. So peaceful and so strange. I had never seen such a place in my life ... and have not again."

"And was no one there?"

"None that we saw." Faramir sighed. "I'm sorry, Frodo. I wish I could give you better news, but it is many hundreds of years since any of the Fair Folk dwelled in Gondor or set sail from its shores. You shall have to travel north to find the Havens you seek."

It was on the tip of Frodo's tongue to blurt out his denial, but with all their faults of saying and not saying, they rarely lied to each other.

When Faramir shivered, Frodo said, "You should go inside. I'm afraid I've got the only warm cloak."

"Come with me?"

"In a little."

"Very well, my love."

Faramir's footsteps receded slowly, and Frodo breathed a sigh of relief that he could get back to his reckoning.

So. No havens close within reach, that is, compared to those near the Shire.

_You wouldn't do it anyway. Would you?_

"I don't know. Tonight I would."

The rain stopped though the night grew colder and Frodo was grateful for the warm cloak around him. It was so large that it was like having a fur rug all wrapped round him though its materials were finer and softer.

The moon rose and Frodo saw that all the mists had drawn away from his little house. Clear was the view from the edge of the cliff down the tumbled, shadowed slopes to the night-dark Sea. If he strained his eyes, he could see the white caps of the waves as they spent their fierceness against the sandy shores. The foam glimmered here and there, and their sparkle matched that of Elbereth's stars above Frodo's head.

But it was quiet. So very quiet. Would it be quiet to sail on the Sea, or would the great ship carrying him creak in protest at the untoward cargo it was forced to carry?

"Surely not if I carried this."

How odd. The Evenstar's pendant usually blazed out with colored fire as soon as he drew it from his shirt. Frodo held it in his palm and traced it points with one finger, but it declined to give off more than a soft glow that did not reach farther than his hand. After a minute, he tucked it away.

"No, I guess not."

* * *

Frodo's joints protested when, in the middle of the night, he unbent his legs and climbed down from the balcony. He almost tripped when he took a step, for the long folds of the cloak tangled around his feet.

Not wanting to end up in a pile on the terrace floor, Frodo kept a careful eye on his path as he made his way to the door. The way was very dark so he did not see the man sitting on the hard bench right next to the door. Nor did Faramir see him, for he was asleep, his chin sunk on his chest and his arms wrapped around himself for a bit of warmth.

_How cold he must be without a cloak._

Frodo shook Faramir gently until he woke with a start.

"Oh! I must have fallen asleep." He rubbed his knuckles in his eyes and shook his head, yawning.

"Come inside now. It's past time for bed," Frodo said.

Faramir stood, and Frodo smiled a little for evidently the man had the same creaky bones that he did.

As they made their way through the darkened house and prepared for bed, Faramir spoke to Frodo, his voice tightly controlled. "This won't do, Frodo. I don't know how much longer I can do this."

"I know."

"Do you?"

Frodo did not answer. He had not the faintest idea what he could possibly say to smooth away the distress in Faramir's voice.

They got into bed. Though they did not speak, neither slept.

As the room started to lighten from the rising sun, Faramir whispered, as if to himself, "I'm so tired."

Frodo slipped his hand into Faramir's and said, "I'm here."

"Are you? For how long?"


End file.
